Not Subject to Death
by Anton M
Summary: *ON HIATUS* A scientist Edward is about to feign death. Underestimating his assistant's ability to lie and emotions she might conceal, Edward suddenly questions his own nature. How do you change yourself after so long? AH
1. I: The Satisfaction of an Untold Secret

**Disclaimer:** The Twilight Saga and its inclusive materials belong to Stephenie Meyer.

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**The Satisfaction of an Untold Secret  
**"_Don't go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing. It was here first."_ – M. T.

Sun had cast its last beams on Chicago.

I stepped closer to the edge, inhaling the nightly breeze that blew on my face. The strong scent of fish filled my nose. Observing the dusky surroundings, I noted that aside from the boy about to film me, I remained unnoticed. I exhaled, content. A few cold droplets fell on my face, rain intensifying and making my plan easier by erasing signs of my blood. I smiled, not having dared to hope for such a perfect turn of events.

I slowly unbuttoned my white shirt, casting it aside before pulling the T-shirt over my head. I thoughtfully let my hands linger on the burnt symbol on my chest, reminding me of my ineluctable 'fate.' I didn't believe in fate. It was such a foolish decision to avoid facing the consequences of your own mistakes.

I stepped out of my shoes and stripped off my pants.

Standing on top of the skyscraper merely in my swimming trunks, I enjoyed the thought of a new beginning. I wondered why I hadn't done it like this before.

"Ready?" I asked Ben, a little homeless boy I'd found a week before, now a victim of my plot. He'd received a generous amount of money – all that I had – for filming these counted seconds. Ben wasn't aware that the tape would only last for thirty-one seconds, but since the point of this video was to prove I could not have survived, a longer tape was out of the question.

"Wait – what do I tell them? They're gonna ask lots of questions," he hesitated, starting to realize that I had not been kidding. A homeless boy on top of a building filming a scientist's suicide?

A _little_ suspicious.

"You're a creative boy, you'll think of something," I assured, knowing that Ben would've made me reconsider if he could. "If you need to, you can tell them I threatened you to come up here. You can add a gun or a knife, whatever suits you."

Ben scratched his neck, revealing a muddy hand, and frowned. "I–I...they won't believe me," he gulped, "I've seen you in old newspapers, you're probably famous or something, they won't believe me."

I calmly locked eyes with him. "Ben, what did I tell you before?"

"That–that people believe whatever they wanna believe," he repeated.

"Exactly," I nodded. "People are too easy to fool. They'll find a reason for my suicide."

Ben fumbled a little, fear coating his face, but remained silent. I stretched my back, wiping my face in an attempt to clear all regrets concerning my assistant, and rubbed the symbol on my chest once again. Rain fell harder.

"It's time," I whispered, staring at the mocking emptiness under my toes, the distant hard concrete in a private yard. It was open to the lake, a fortunate fact I was not going to waste. The fact that gates and doors were locked and the tiny yard was completely unlit wasn't a mere coincidence. "Ready?"

"I think so," he uttered, clearly afraid of my actions. His eyes landed on the few recently appeared silhouettes on the lighted windows, but Ben didn't mention it. Neither did I.

I offered him an assuring smile. "It was nice knowing you, Ben. Use my money wisely."

"I'm gonna use it to pay for school," Ben relaxed slightly, giving me a nod before starting the video.

"Wise indeed," I muttered, turning my head away and closing my eyes. I remained frozen for a few seconds, letting the raindrops wash over my body. I touched my lips, remembering the bittersweet revenge of my momentary hesitation. I would miss having my assistant around.

I raised my hands, opening my palms for water.

Smiling widely, I jumped.


	2. Ch 1: The Power of Experience

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**The Power of Experience**

"_If we aren't willing to pay a price for our values, if we aren't willing to make some sacrifices in order to realize them, then we should ask ourselves whether we believe in them at all."_ – B. O.

Scattered heaps of meaningless items decorated the desk in my office, piles sitting in piles and silently laughing at the piles underneath. Books on shelves, contradictorily, were painfully ordered, first by the first letter of the author, then by the first letter of the name of the book, and after that, by the publishing date. I couldn't decide which was better, but I knew I wouldn't be able to work in an office where _books_ were disorganized. I couldn't have cared less about the contents of my table, the stupid little gifts I'd been given, mainly by my assistant. I especially loathed picture frames.

A couple of times when I'd had enough, I brutally threw away everything on my table, only to have it start piling up again. I'd seen enough to generalize: little gestures were thought to be a sign of thoughtfulness. I disagreed. Little gestures were a sign of fake humbleness and – what's worse – a complete waste of time, money, and Earth's resources.

Today proved, once again, that selective hearing was not only common, but all-encompassing. I clearly told my assistant not to make a fuss about my birthday, but what did she do? Miss Swan not only let my employees know that I had a birthday, but she also wanted me to celebrate it.

Birthday.

Birthday was my wordless way to live in a world where I no longer recalled the time and place I was born in. A habit of creating and re-creating a past for myself was mandatory. The idealized illusion of immortality was lost on me, and books that so foolishly encouraged the idea of living forever, or simply not dying, weren't poignant enough to draw my attention. The idea of an all-wise immortal was full of pits; the gaps too obvious and oblivious to the fact that time _did_ elapse. A man worthy of a monument during one era was an object of ridicule the next. I'd obtained seventeen PhD's during my life, but it revealed nothing of my nature other than my ridiculous perseverance.

Knowledge expired.

I stretched my back and cracked knuckles. After days like today, it felt as if my body were aware it was millenniums old. I'd recently overheard a conversation where it was pointed out how talented I must've been because of the amount of revolutionary discoveries I'd already done in my youth.

From their perspective, that would be true.

The word young always brought a sly smile to my face. I couldn't help it. I had estimated that I was born about five thousand years B.C, and the word young wasn't a description I had in mind. A bitter stump was more like it. To watch time pass by in such a way and to know that mankind would never learn from its mistakes was bound to cause bitter indignation. Just like love did.

My relationship with Miss Swan was an odd one. She was an efficient assistant and I deeply valued her presence; she was probably the only one who did not, and would not, buckle under the pressure I put her under. I couldn't deny being attracted to her, but I was determined not to act upon it. It would ruin the both of us. Age difference took a whole new level when one partner was about seven thousand years old and the other one was twenty five.

Talk about pedophilia.

But it wasn't only the mild age difference, because I was fully aware that we could potentially have fifty or sixty years of happy life together (if I was being cocky and under the questionable impression that she would want to spend her entire life with me). Her aging wouldn't bother me as much as the fact that in the end, I would end up alone in a pile of bitterness. If I shut her out of my life right now, that would not happen.

And in a few weeks, I was going to pretend my own death. I was on the verge of falling in love with my assistant, on the verge of inventing a cure for AIDS, on the verge of my age pretense – 35 was already a stretch for me – and I felt on top of my game. My death would be a shock and major news, but I'd be forgotten eventually. Newspapers and pictures faded, memories along with them.

I stood up, slowly sauntering toward the door before I opened it and heard Miss Swan's voice, discussing something with Mrs. Hale.

"He looks gorgeous!" Miss Swan gushed. "Perfection."

"I'd tap that ass anytime," Mrs. Hale added. "If I wasn't married."

"I know what you mean."

Deciding to interfere to find out about whom they were speaking – though I already had a vague idea – I slid the door open and grabbed my coat before stepping behind them. Neither of them paid any attention to me. Mrs. Hale was bending over to have a better view of the picture on screen while my assistant sat in front of her, elbow resting on the table and chin on her hand. I leaned closer before clearing my throat.

My assistant jumped, but Mrs. Hale straightened her back, spruced up her clothes, and left without looking in my direction. I stared at the picture on screen. "So that is perfection? Robert-What's-His-Name-Again?"

"Pattinson."

"Right."

A few seconds of wordless ogling – I, trying to find the appeal of an actor whose style was to seem homeless at all times, and Miss Swan actually appreciating the view – was soon interrupted by a tap on the door. A head peeked in and mouth opened before my assistant muttered, "Just a moment."

"Make it quick."

"We will," she assured, hurriedly yanking yellow notes from the edges of her monitor while shutting off the computer with her other hand. She knew I didn't mind her distractions as long as her work didn't suffer under it. It didn't. Besides, it was almost nine o'clock and though I was a fairly strict boss, even I didn't find it necessary to be working this late.

Miss Swan grabbed her own coat, but without bothering to put it on, she opened the door for me and tilted her head toward it. I merely nodded.

"Hurry up."

"Why?" I semi-rhetorically inquired.

She uneasily checked the time from her cellular, tucking it in what I'd assumed was a fake pocket. "It's already a quarter until nine. I don't want us to be late."

"I wouldn't mind," I sighed, stepping through the door. "Wait, how many people did you invite?"

"A few."

"Uh-oh."

"I'm serious."

She awkwardly averted her eyes, swung herself on her heels and pushed the elevator's button. The slightest cling announced its arrival before we entered. She started to tap the floor with her foot, scratching her neck before shutting her eyes; as per usual, she was more nervous than the situation required.

A cab was waiting for us, but this time, I opened the door for her. Just like I had done before, she nodded. Opening doors for each other was our 'thing.' Whenever we needed to travel together – which happened a lot more often than one would think – we took turns opening doors. It was probably the only thing about which we didn't argue.

I could barely close the door before the cab took off, Miss Swan already giving directions to the driver. I silently eyed Chicago lights in the evening; it wasn't my favorite city to live in, but I appreciated its charm when it wasn't covered with smog.

"You know, you kind of remind me of him."

Alert, I snapped my head toward her. "Who?"

"Robert."

"What's-His-Name-Again?"

"Pattinson. And yes," she affirmed, either less nervous than she'd been before, or more skilful at concealing her uneasiness from me. If the latter were true, I couldn't apprehend the purpose.

I let a scarce smile cover my lips. "Was that a compliment?"

"Obviously."

I couldn't remember when was the last time I sincerely laughed, but apparently, now was the time to remind myself I was capable of it.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, I wish you could see the world through my eyes," I sighed, still amused. I was under no impression that I was handsome. I had seen too much of the world, gained too many scars, visible or otherwise. My features were too strong and personality too closed to expect wishful thinking from other people. The murders I'd committed did nothing to sugarcoat my perspective of myself, either. I did realize that personality traits had heavy influence on our view of people, but since I owned few that were positive, my absent virtues did not compensate my lack of 'beauty.' Aesthetics only explained the importance of a perspective, something Eco did in all of his works, and in the end it was a wonder to know how little it actually mattered.

People were easily deceived by confidence.

Miss Swan's eyebrow rose, and she smiled, interested. "And how does the world look like from your eyes?"

How does one reveal the hopeful and hopeless experience of living for seven thousand years in one single sentence?

"You don't want to know," I said resolutely. The reason I barely ever spoke of my past was because I didn't want to have to lie to anyone, especially to her. I needed as little falsehood between us as possible.

She didn't buckle. "What if I do?"

"No," I shook my head, completely serious. "Don't."

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but she fell silent and tore her eyes away from mine to look at the reflections on Lake Michigan. I took the moment to memorize her features, being fully aware that I would do it as often as possible during the next few weeks. Memories faded, but I would do anything to postpone the inevitable haze of my memories.

When we first met, I intentionally emphasized that we address one another as 'Mr.' and 'Miss.' because I was aware that she was an attractive woman in her twenties and probably about to work for me. Apparently I was wiser in my ideas than my actions.

It was not 'love at first sight' – the few times I have been in love, it never was. Isabella Swan was actually my second choice for an assistant, but I let her have the job because my first one decided to move to New York City. Miss Swan was quite a short girl with long vaguely wavy hair, a thing for swinging on her heels, rock bands I'd never heard of, and pasta. She seemed simple enough.

Most of all, she took no offense in my practicality. I loved that part of her. Miss Swan knew her job and efficiently did what she had to do.

"Would you like to go through your speech once again?" she asked timidly. I wished I could show her that there was no reason for her to be nervous, especially since I was the one having to speak.

I smiled slightly. "Miss Swan, you've known me for how long?"

"Three years, sir," she responded quickly. "Three years and three months, to be exact."

My grin widened as I acknowledged how precise she was, but I mentally added eleven days to it. Did I say 'on the verge of' falling for her?

I was such a liar.

"And how many times have I agreed to practice my speech?"

Her eyes widened. "Good point."

"Don't underestimate the power of experience, Miss Swan; it gives a liberating predictability to the future."

.-*-.-*-.

I stepped out of the cab, leaving the door open for Miss Swan and then shutting it behind her. Flashes of light beamed on us, many of them. Before I acknowledged what I was doing, I placed a hand on my assistant's waist and determinedly pulled her through the crowd.

"What the hell did you do?" I whispered while quickly trying to get inside.

"I didn't do anything," she frowned. "I didn't know they'd be here."

Miss Swan flushed slightly as she locked eyes with me. A negative necessity such as manipulation was impossible with her body giving away her thoughts. Had she lied, she would not have looked me in the eye – I was sure of that.

"We'll talk about this later."

I didn't mind paparazzi; they were just doing their job. What worried me was that the press wasn't supposed to know anything about our discovery. Not yet. I wanted the public to know the significance of our discovery a day before my disappearance. I would go, but I would go with a bang that would never be forgotten.

We reached the doorstep of the restaurant, an old mansion that I faintly recalled, and stepped inside. The hallway was silent, dimly lit with a high ceiling and a waiter in a tux motioning toward the wardrobe. I gave him a nod, not moving.

"Do they know?" I muttered, starting to take off my coat.

Her eyes were frightened. "I don't think so… they shouldn't. But why were they…?"

I dismissed her question; the fact was that they were here, no matter the reason. Something had to have leaked. "Do you think it's _likely_ for them to know? Because I'll obviously have to alter my speech entirely."

"Wait here."

I tilted my head, letting her leave, and strolled toward the wardrobe myself. Hearing laughter and hushed voices, some familiar and some less, I considered the chance that I'd have to feign my death tomorrow. I could do it, I knew I could, but I didn't want to. That would mean tonight was my last chance to spend time with the people I'd gotten to know during the past ten years, hear their thoughts of our discovery and jokes about my future, youthful idealism and amusing curiosity.

Hear her.

Then again, maybe a clean cut would be better. No confusing goodbyes, words that would later be interpreted as a sign of depression, no delays or hesitations. No urge to reveal my feelings for my assistant.

Absent-minded, I gave my coat away and tweaked my tie. The symbol of infinity, _my_ symbol, stood out in the background of my black tuxedo, an inside joke that I was only meant to share with myself. Infinity was nothing compared to the loneliness it trapped me in.

Miss Swan appeared from around the corner, a hint of a smile on her face. I felt incredibly relieved from that little expression. A clean cut was possible, but I was a man of calculated moves, not spontaneous actions.

"They know nothing," Miss Swan sighed, reassured. "At least nothing significant; they're here because of the amount of businessmen and prominence invited."

I exhaled; I had two more weeks to wrap up my life in this city. "Thank you."

"Anytime. Now, shall we?"

Nodding, I followed her to the hallway, noises becoming more distinguished and lights brighter with every step. My assistant let me enter the room first, and as I noticed how many people had decided to come, I became overwhelmed. The large circular room was filled with tables with the exception of a vacant spot in the middle for dancing and giving speeches. I modestly waved at everyone, catching sight of an elderly Dr. Carlisle Cullen a few feet from me, his wife accompanying him. I smiled slightly at them, but kept walking.

"A few, Miss Swan? _A few_?" I murmured.

She successfully kept up with my pace. "Compared to the amount I had listed, twice as much, this _is_ few. You're a pretty popular man for such a boring boss."

"Thanks for lifting my confidence, it's much appreciated."

She emitted an amused huff. "Yes, because confidence isn't encoded in you."

That's only because in a hundred years, I'll still be here when they'll be victims of bacteria and fungi, but most of all, time. I didn't own that luxury. "You know me too well."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should."

I found my way to the center of the room, voices diminishing as if the volume was being turned down. I inhaled, stepped behind the lectern and locked eyes with familiar faces – Dr. Cullen gave me a proud thumbs up, a well-known scientist Mr. Hale briefly closed his eyes, I even saw a glimpse of Dr. Cullen's son, Emmett Cullen, and his wife – but most importantly, my assistant gave me a smile to die for as she sat around a table right in front of me.

I started my speech with a 'fictional' story of a man who met Protagoras, a Greek philosopher with an exceptional idea – that man was the measure of all things. Like the lucky man who had the chance to meet Protagoras, I realized that objective perception was a wishful belief. Therefore, as close as we were to the creation of a cure for AIDS, while the consequences would be positive for the length of a single human life, they would be negative for Earth. If unsuccessful to restrain, human population would explode beyond belief.

During my ten years of stay in Chicago, my team and I had already created a revolutionary treatment: a viable cell replacement therapy for those who suffered from Parkinson's disease and other degenerative disorders. That was probably why, more often than not, I was unable to avoid press. I was not famous by any means, but a cure as developed and efficiently verified as what we had created drew attention; too much of it.

I didn't doubt that my so-called suicide would remain a mystery. I was nothing if not thorough; time taught me to plan. The fact that I hadn't feigned death for more than two centuries worried me, but not enough to withdraw my carefully calculated plan.

As I spoke, I realized something.

My every step, mood and word that they'd witnessed tonight would be analyzed later. Half of them would dissect my behavior, account for my 'depression,' point out that I was an introvert, had an aura of mystery around me, kept to myself and didn't have any close friends. They would fill the gaping hole they saw as my past with a preferably deep trauma that I had been trying to hide and failed to deal with alone.

If immortality was a trauma, they were right. I would not recover from it.

The other half would give a cause for further (futile) analysis reasoning that I wasn't the type to commit suicide, that I was simply committed to my work and liked to be alone. My suicide would be questioned as a staged homicide, a cleverly prepared murder with the face of an unlikely suicide. My apartment would be scrutinized. It would be easy for the detectives to interpret my lack of love for meaningless items as an urge to escape from my past.

Again, in a sense, they would be right.

Noticing that there were three cameras in the room, I had the audacity to smile. I decided to have fun with that fact as I wrapped up my speech.

"In two weeks, history will be made," I paused, frowning calculatedly. "None of us will live forever, and neither will I. But I can safely say that while I'm here, I will do everything in my power to make a cure for cancer not only a reality, but a reachable reality." I placed a hand on my tie, seemingly scratching the symbol. I masked my face in complete graveness. "Thank you so much for coming. Enjoy your night."

Applause erupted and I heard whispering in the background. I gave them the slightest nod before retreating. Slow jazz music started to play; first appetizers were brought and a few acquaintances motioned for me to accompany them. I doubtlessly shook my head. I was vaguely interested in spending time with Ms. Swan, and she was an early bird. I was certain that she'd grow slumberous as the hour hand pointed at ten, or as soon as she stopped either eating or talking.

Surely I could feed her both food and questions to keep her awake.

Content that my assistant chose a table that had a vacant spot, I took a seat next to her. Ms. Swan frowned as she leaned closer to me, baffled. "What was that all about?"

A corner of my mouth rose upward. "Thanks for being so specific. That was all about the sandwich I ate this morning."

Ms. Swan didn't even smile; instead, she diverted her eyes and nervously started to twiddle with her thumbs. "No, I mean that mood swing up there. I've known you for three years, and I can safely say that not ever have I seen you moody. It's not you."

"Maybe you don't know me that well after all," I stated, not realizing before that she could be this perceptive. I wasn't concerned, but I knew this conversation would haunt her later as they repeatedly showed these videos on the news. I had no doubt that they would.

Ms. Swan wasn't fooled easily. "You can't deny that I still know you better than anyone else," she paused, bringing her white wine to her lips. "If I told you right now that my whole family died in a car crash, you would probably just sit there with that intense gaze of yours, completely motionless. Then you'd scowl a little before starting to comfort me, and while I'd know you'd be sincere, you would still remain calm as ever. Correct? I do know you, and you don't do anything without a purpose. That's why I find it hard to figure out why you were grinning so mysteriously at one point and switched moods so suddenly."

Predictably, I stared at her for a moment. "Ms. Swan, some things aren't worthy of anger, death least of all. And don't over-think or you might find that, regardless of character, some actions are victims of habit and have no meaning."

She frowned further and kept twiddling her thumbs in silence as we realized that all six people around our table had fallen silent. Ms. Swan mildly lowered her voice. "Ending speeches by showing off mood swings that you now have is a _habit_ of yours? I highly doubt that. As you said before, my experience begs to differ."

I gripped the outer fork, dismissing her question. "Ms. Swan, it's not like you to get so worked up over something so insignificant."

"It's not like you to behave so differently," she replied, cringing a little, but I could see her determination fading. I took a bite of the appetizer and chewed on it before responding.

"It's not like you to notice it."

A hesitant, humorless smile appeared on her lips. "Why do I even bother arguing with you? You always win, and if you don't, you still manage to make it seem as if you did."

Glad that she'd forgotten about my moods (or lack thereof), I gave her a smile back and lowered my voice. "Because I'm your wonderful boss and you need to suck up to me."

This time, she let out a full laugh. "Probably."

"Certainly," I assured.

We silently finished eating our appetizers before the main course was brought out; only a few words were exchanged between us. I had plenty of time to examine the quests. Expectedly, I didn't even know half of them, but I assumed they had something to do with business, pharmacy companies or science... or all three combined. The four other people around my table I didn't know, nor was I wasn't eager to get to know. I successfully managed to prevent a situation where their obvious desire to acquaint themselves with me would be fulfilled.

A few trivial words, tiny yet overdone courses and avoided glances later, the first course of dessert rolled around. I knew it was the time when walking around wouldn't be perceived as a sign of crudity, but as a welcomed chance to catch up with acquaintances – I highly doubted there were many people who actually knew each other enough to call them friends. Most of all, it was a chance to personally greet the birthday 'boy.'

Right.

Ms. Swan tugged my sleeve to draw my attention. "I think you should go."

I exaggeratedly opened my eyes too wide, sighing at the sight of the people who were approaching me. "You _think_?"

"I do. Now go," she tugged on my sleeve harder.

I shook my head, but smiled as I saluted her. "Yes, ma'am."

My assistant laughed, nudging my arm. For a fraction of a moment, I locked eyes with her to make sure she wasn't suddenly going to doze out and end up drowning in my cake. She shifted herself under my gaze, wriggling in her fancy chair. "What?"

"Nothing." On my feet, I averted my eyes as I re-situated my chair. My assistant would never admit any of her weaknesses. "Absolutely nothing. I'll be right back."

"I'll be waiting."

I smiled, but shifted my cake away from her. "Try not to get killed by my cake while you're at it."

Her mouth opened for a reply, but I hastily strolled away before she could utter it. I'd noticed a bar at the other end of the room and motioned for others to join me there, away from the limelight.

Even though pretending came easy for me since my 'lives' were nothing but a sham, I found it difficult today to feign that I cared what they wanted to say to me. Acquaintances came with too many empty promises to keep in touch, too many gifts that, at best, I would donate, too many handshakes, frivolous talk and time that I didn't want to waste on them. I'd rather waste it on my assistant while I could. Trusting came with difficulties; I never knew whether people wanted to have important connections for the sake of it or if they truly cared.

The latter happened so seldom that really, it wasn't a question anymore.

Not that I cared. For them, I'd be dead in a few weeks anyway.

I was careful not to let on how little I thought of their gestures, but I wondered if they realized how automatic I was in my actions. I became my own annoying background music: existent but inane. I occasionally eyed my assistant, checking if she was still awake or not. By the time the line in front of (and around) me had decreased to the mere sight of Dr. Cullen and his wife, I noticed that Ms. Swan was probably drinking her third glass of wine. Not ever had I seen her drink more than one. I frowned before walking toward our half-empty table and signaling for Carlisle and Esme to follow me. They weren't too close to me as I tended to keep a careful distance with whomever I met, but I still trusted them as much as I trusted my assistant, which, in itself, conveyed an enormous amount of reliance.

I carefully lifted my chair away from the table before drawing my assistant's attention. "Ms. Swan?"

"Hm?" she replied, carelessly tilting her head to the side. Dr. Cullen and his wife took the liberty to sit down on the newly vacant seats beside us, Carlisle resting his cane on the other side of my chair. My assistant swung her head, stuttering mildly, "Can you– can you believe I'm the only one here who ate a vegetarian meal?"

"Yes," I easily replied, "I can. But why are you trying to drown yourself in your wine? You don't tolerate alcohol."

"I'm thirsty," she said, gulping the last sip as she motioned for the waiter to bring more. I wasn't offended by her behavior, not at all; I just found it incredibly strange that she dismissed me so carelessly. I quickly grabbed her glass from her fingers and politely made the waiter back down before Mrs. Cullen locked eyes with me. She stood up.

"Honey, would you mind accompanying me to the ladies' room?" She smiled that gentle smile of hers, leaving my assistant no other choice but to obey. In her middle sixties, Esme held a certain dignity to her; it wasn't difficult to reason for my assistant's unwavering respect toward her. Ms. Swan shot me a confusing look of disapproval before departing.

A moment of silence fell on us before Emmett and his wife approached, Jasper following them. I felt relieved not having to pretend as if I cared about the people I didn't know.

Carlisle leaned on his cane as his slightly hunched back seemed to be causing him pain and I gave him a helping hand. He eyed me curiously before his son, who was now motioning for Jasper's wife to join us, caught my attention. "Some rare orator skills you got back there, who'd you learn from?"

"Cicero." Not a single better potential lie than the truth.

Emmett coughed at a snack before letting out a laugh. "You have an odd sense of humor, anyone ever tell you that?"

"Yes," I replied seriously. I felt a little uncomfortable by the sudden change of mood, but successfully ignored it. Whatever was wrong with my assistant, she would be okay.

"Has he always been this serious?" Emmett arched an eyebrow at his father. "I mean, seriously. I don't think I've ever seen him happy."

Dr. Cullen rubbed his cane, staring at me for a moment. Even with his back cowering, his once blond hair now bleached and pale white, the deep wrinkles around his eyes undeniable, Carlisle still had a sharp mind even when his body failed. It had been ten years since I 'first' met him; I'd known him longer than I'd known anyone else in this city. Only two years had passed since I realized I'd already befriended Carlisle when he was younger. I was both relieved that I, too, had an invisible rope of time to hold on to, and depressed that the rope was so inconveniently weak.

I was unable to tell him that we had once been friends. Even so many years after our paths diverged, I noticed the change in his character. He'd become thoughtful, perceptive, halting his right leg after the war. The vast difference in his previously thoughtless nature was probably the reason I hadn't realized that he was himself, only wiser. Age tended to leave a mark, not the visible damage time did to a body, but a hidden trait. It always did.

"You must've not seen him with his assistant then," Carlisle replied, not tearing his blue eyes away from mine. I didn't even flinch; this topic was predictable if not expected.

Jasper leaned forward, fully attentive as he shared a glance with his wife. "You mean Alice's friend?"

"Yeah," Emmett grinned. "She's hot." Earning a nudge from his wife, he was silent for a minute. It wasn't a problem for me to spend time with them, but their eagerness to discuss my love life made it complicated for me to constantly reason for my lack of a companion. Finding 'the other part of me' was to be expected of a man with as many years on his back as I had.

If they only knew.

"Don't you think it's time to settle down? You won't be thirty five forever." Carlisle still eyed me in his calm way, voicing the question that I'd dodged numerous times. I knew to whom he was referring, as did he, but a mention of a name would've been a direct hit at my cowardice. We both knew that.

I didn't react, but inaudibly inhaled a breath as I examined them, sitting around the table with their significant others. They didn't realize that these would be the years they'd later idealize, forgetting the meaningless struggles and wrapping the bitterness in a coat of wishful forgetfulness or unfairly amplifying it.

"So?" Emmett grinned rather amiably. "Why so silent? Tell me you've found someone; you've got to face the facts, man. You need to start taking part of your own life." Unlike his father, he was unaware of my interest toward my assistant.

"I don't need anyone. I'm busy enough with work, where would I find time?" I answered vaguely, tired of repeating this conversation.

"Edward, you don't _find_ time, you _make_ time. Not having enough time is all about priorities, not an actual lack of time."

I smiled evasively, unaccustomed to receiving moral from others, especially one that included the usage of time. "I'm aware. It's just not the best time."

"That's the bullshit you keep giving us, year after year," he said.

Jasper's face cleared as he bent forward, gripping Alice's shoulder absent-mindedly. Ever since Alice had arrived, she'd been silently searching for my assistant with her eyes. She hadn't participated in the conversation, but wasn't neglecting it either.

"Wait a minute," Jasper's eyes landed on me, suddenly awkward. "You don't have, I mean, problems in that, uh, department?"

I let out a laugh, one that was uncharacteristically loud and untimely stupid. Impotence would've given me an excellent excuse for not having a spouse, but my reaction had already given me away.

"Not that I know of, no," I uttered, suddenly feeling uneasy about the honesty in my words. Without any exception, I'd murdered all women I'd had sexual intercourse with before the end of 20th century, countless women. I didn't have actual proof that I was not an impotent, but I wasn't too worried. Children weren't possible unless I planned to commit another mass murder, and the prospect didn't sound appealing.

"Just checking," Jasper smiled apologetically. "That doesn't solve the question of why we haven't seen you with any women, though, if that is, uh, what you're looking for," Jasper stumbled on his words again, but this time, Emmett laughed. I wouldn't have minded, really, but I knew I'd been seen with the few women I'd met as a distraction.

"I've seen him with some, alright," Emmett winked at me, "they're just not people you'd introduce to your parents."

Carlisle still cowered beside me with an unsettling expression on his face. I chose not to comment, prolonging the silence by doing so. When I understood it was too late to respond, it magnified their interest.

"Really, Edward, you're just begging for questions here," Emmett claimed. "Why?"

"I like to be alone," I dismissed, shrugging as if the matter held no importance for me and dismissing their interest. "It's not a decision as conscious as you give me credit for."

"Simple as that?" he doubted, surely voicing the thoughts on all of their minds.

I nodded. "Simple as that."

Emmett, too, stared at me for moment before he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. I hadn't realized before how much alike he and his father were, how much his spontaneity reminded me of a younger Carlisle. Completely carefree.

Emmett co-owned a pharmacy company; one that, due to co-operating with us, would gain more profit than any pharmacy company had ever gained before. Writing a contract with him became one of my most spontaneous actions – at the time, I neither knew nor trusted the thirty two year old man with rough manners and unpredictable decisions. Intuition I didn't trust, and he leaned on it more than necessary. I found intuition to be a form of reasonless reasoning where intelligence lacked.

"I don't know, there's something about you," Jasper added, "I cannot help but think that you're above it all with the way you detach yourself from people. I'm not sure what you lean on in life, though."

I wondered the same.

I discreetly lead the conversation to safer grounds, not wanting to see a reason to postpone my plan or reconsider entirely. My capacity to detach myself from others was not an easy resolution, and I had recoiled on more than one occasion. By nature, I had a tendency to have less confidence in people than they might've deserved, but even I had not always been that way. I, like everyone else, was a victim of my own life. Everything I believed in consisted of what life taught me to cope with, and what I didn't believe in was caused by ineffective practice in my own life.

A few moments later, Esme arrived, my assistant slowly following her. Ms. Swan stumbled a little, her eyes not quite focused and morose distress coating her face. Alice was by her side before I could react, but after all, my reaction equaled to no reaction.

"I think she has food poisoning," Esme whispered, leaning toward Carlisle. "We have to get her home."

Alice shared a few hushed words with my assistant as I quietly observed the situation, noticing that my assistant's face was remarkably off color. She did appear to be ill, but I had a reason to doubt she was. They surrounded her, overwhelming my assistant with their concern.

Surprisingly, Carlisle hadn't even moved. "Edward will take her home," he muttered. "Won't you, Edward?"

I locked eyes with him, motionless. It was too simple to see through his motives.

"Sure," I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment. "But I don't have a car, we came in a cab."

Emmett objected. "What's the point of tonight if you're not here? It hasn't even reached even the good part yet."

"I can send her–" Alice started before Carlisle sent her a sharp look that was soon followed by a slight nudge with his cane. I almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation and the 'subtle' way they were handling it.

"Edward can take Emmett's car," Carlisle said clearly. "He can handle it."

Emmett frowned. "But I–"

Rose eyed my assistant, shutting Emmett's mouth with her hand and smiling curtly. I gave Emmett the slightest nod before he dejectedly rendered up his keys. I gave him a nod. "You'll get them back tomorrow."

To show that I did not care about my gifts would've been impolite, so I explained to Alice that they should end up in my office. But I wouldn't have questioned her if she gave them to the homeless shelter. I didn't care.

Getting outside took us longer due to my guests who had the bothersome manner to care where I was heading so early and why. I offered them similarly vague replies about not feeling well. Had I told them it was not me who didn't feel well, they'd have found another driver in a heartbeat. Even though I doubted my assistant, I was relieved to leave. Parties were all about making connections, something I'd learned to avoid.

Carlisle accompanied us to the door, and I motioned for him to stop as I handed the keys over to Miss Swan. She faltered, but gripped them absent-mindedly and stepped through the door.

"I know what you're doing," I stated when my assistant was far enough.

Carlisle eyed me, leaning on the cane and stretching his back. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"It's not going to work."

He averted his eyes. "We'll see."

"Carlisle, I know that you mean well, but I have my reasons. I'm not as blind as you might think," I said, hoping to clear his delusions.

"We'll see," he repeated, turning about and halting back to the party. I rushed outside, determined to get through the press as quickly as possible, dodging questions about our potential discovery and my speculated press release in a few weeks.

I recognized Emmett's expensive car, an overly sizable vehicle. Without looking in my assistant's direction, I clutched the keys, turned the ignition and sped away. Away from the press, I finally took a moment to observe her. Miss Swan seemed to be holding her breath as she rested her head, eyes closed. Her dark hair was pinned in a bun and face barely held color. Perplexed that I invariably fell in love with girls who matched similar descriptions, I hid my confusion under indifference.

"You're lying," I accused almost inaudibly. Her eyes snapped to mine as if she was angry, but for the first time, I noticed how dull and lifeless they appeared.

She ducked her head before vomiting on the floor. I opened the windows.

"...or not."

.-*-.-*-.

I wondered if I was helping her because I cared, if I thought it was the right thing to do, or if it colored a shady territory in between. I knew of my inability to perceive life in black and white because their difference faded. Not confusing my assistant with my feelings was partly a selfless thing to do – on the off-chance that she felt the same, I avoided hurting her – and partly my egoism because if the latter were true, I prevented hundreds of years filled with pointless longing.

Right and wrong were simply a play on words.

Midnight had passed a few hours ago. I'd dragged an armchair next to her bed to be there when she needed me, but being unoccupied was starting to bother me. Though used to it, it never provided the challenge I felt I needed. My assistant's breathing was slowing, her eyes shut, numerous blankets reaching her nose and tightly tucked under her. She'd finally fallen asleep. I pulled off my shoes, sighing before I carefully sat on the edge of the bed. I wiped a dark lock from her face, pausing as she shifted and murmured an unintelligible sound. My assistant's appearance was more a result of the simplicity of youth than a conscious decision to wipe men off their feet.

I was unsure if her innocence was the bottom line of my infatuation, and her beauty a mere twist of wishful thinking. But I didn't care much.

She'd stopped vomiting half an hour ago, and despite clear proof that her sickness was real, I found myself wondering if the change in her behavior last night meant anything, if her drinking indicated a suppressed problem. Perhaps a physical weakness did signal a neglected problem. If so, what was she suppressing?

It occurred to me how little I knew of her past. She was born in a small town in Washington, raised by a single father, had no siblings. She'd obtained a Master's degree in Chemistry three years ago, but that reached the limit of my knowledge.

I'd called Carlisle to hear what I could and should do for my assistant, and he gave me instructions. I knew the basics myself; I just wanted to make sure that my (latest) medical degree from the year 1951 wouldn't disagree with the knowledge nowadays. This time, it didn't.

Not tired enough to sleep and not wanting to do anything I would regret later, I stood up, my assistant's incoherent muttering following me. I added a spare blanket before silently leaving the bedroom.

Predictably, her apartment was a polar opposite of mine: framed photos covered the walls, shelves were packed with handicraft and disordered books, colorful carpets veiled every inch of the floor and an insane amount of potted plants decorated her living room. She cared about all the knick-knacks that meant nothing to me.

But wandering round the corner, I found a relieving similarity between our apartments.

A fireplace.

I smiled vaguely. I wasn't a demanding resident because of my obvious minimalist approach to the world, but when I decided to settle for longer than a year, I always needed a fireplace. I found fire to be assuring, probably a nostalgic remainder of my youth. My memories of that time were just as garbled and dependent on my experience as anyone's – living as long as I had hadn't given me a memory better than most, it merely offered me time to practice developing it. Over the course of an incredibly long time span, I had learned to control my body to an extent that would seem unachievable if I hadn't lived and practiced for as long as I had.

My thoughts ceased as I halted to a stop in front of a wide mirror. A young man of twenty five to thirty years stared back, dark beard hiding his angular chin and short hair ordinarily chaotic. I sighed, tugging my beard. I hated having it. I could shave it off in a few weeks, but that didn't make me feel any better.

Averting my eyes, I switched off the lights and returned to my assistant's bedroom. She was still sleeping, a deranged murmur covering her lips. I sat, closing my eyes. Sleep was easy to control.

I awoke to the sound of my name. I thought my assistant was sleep-talking, but after sitting next to her, I realized her eyes were opened. Stretching my stiff back, I tasted the unpleasant evidence of my unbrushed teeth. I grimaced.

My assistant's face was white, lips pale and hair in a complete disarray.

"You look awful." I let my eyes linger on her tired face. "Horrible."

Her sleepy eyes focused on my face, hesitating. She mumbled something woefully before letting out an amused huff. "Tha–thanks," she sighed. "Good to know."

"How are you feeling?" I squinted my eyes to the first sunbeams that brightened the room.

"Fun–" she cleared her throat, "funny."

"Funny?"

"Yes," she coughed again, "why are you here? No, I mean – why are you _still_ here?"

"Because I'm afraid of the dark and needed you to keep me company."

A smile played on her lips, but her voice remained weak. "I'm serious."

"So am I," I smiled back. "Do you need anything? Water?"

My assistant frowned, nodding. I left the room and filled the cup before I rinsed my mouth. I heard her groan of pain and as I re-entered the room, I noticed that she'd tried to sit up. "Ow," she grimaced, resentful. She fell back on the pile of pillows. "There's something wrong with this picture."

"Am I such an insensitive man in your eyes that you don't even believe I'd care enough to take care of you, even for a while?" I exaggerated my hurt face.

"No…" My assistant took the water from my hand and gulped it down without taking a breath. "And yes." She sighed, placing the cup on the cupboard. "I'm sure you care, I'm just not sure why you decided to show it this time."

"Would you rather I left you at the party?"

"No," she replied silently, but firmly.

I held her gaze. "There's your answer."

"You're aggravating, you know that?"

I've only had seven thousand years to figure out my character, but… "Surprising, I know."

"Hardly." Miss Swan tried to straighten her back, but her attempts failed. I helped my assistant before questioning her about nausea, headache and stomach pain. If she felt uncomfortable with my sudden curiosity, she didn't mention it. I tweaked the pillows under her and placed another cup of water on her cupboard before I sat on the edge of the bed, silent. She locked eyes with me, not saying a word.

I stared back.

Her face had mildly colored, and eyes, although tired, drew me in – not because she had suddenly started to seem beautiful, but because of the sudden interest in them. I hadn't seen it before, so I couldn't fathom whether it was mere confusion or gratitude. I just observed her brown eyes, thoughtful.

It occurred to me that even in my mind, I shut her out, never called her by her nickname, refused to linger on the thought that she cared for me a fragment of how much I cared for her. Even in my mind, I carefully avoided being descriptive of my feelings.

During these three years, I had managed to avoid situations like this one. Curiosity from my part meant hurting myself, and I detested the self-pity that it would bring. Sorrowing over my own sufferings would be unnecessary and useless. But staring at a person I loved, the thought of giving in to temptation didn't seem so pointless; instead, it brought a feeling of inevitability.

I could cope with inevitable.

Still silent, I leaned in, decidedly closing the gap between us and slightly brushing my lips against hers. Her lips were cold. My assistant had shut her eyes, but I pulled back before she had the chance or will to respond. Deceit would be my choice, just like my initiative would shift the guilt to me, and I was thoroughly pleased about that.

Stunned, my assistant laid motionless, her eyes still closed and right hand touching her lips. I wiped all remains of a smile off my face. The thought that I couldn't stand a chance disturbed me, but I didn't want her to care about me. It was best if she didn't.

Miss Swan opened her eyes, clearly confused. "Why'd you…"

"I shouldn't have," I responded without hesitation. I could already imagine how much my mixed signals would later confuse her, how much my skilful lies might haunt her even if she never felt anything toward me.

"I don't understand." She wiped her face with her hands. "You've never..."

"I do not want you to," I responded, not leaving room for hesitation. Briefly locking eyes with her confirmed that she was more hurt than she let herself reveal, but I tore my eyes away and abruptly stood up. "Do you have anyone who can take care of you?"

"Why are you–" She stopped and grimaced. "Excuse me?"

I repeated my question.

My assistant avoided my eyes. "Alice has my keys; she could stop by if she has time."

"I'll talk to her." I gave her a nod before putting on my shoes and straightening my back. Silence consumed us for a moment.

"Miss Swan?"

"Hm?"

"I apologize for my earlier behavior, I was out of line."

Her expression wouldn't have been bitterer had I slapped her. She gulped. "It's okay."

I nodded, grabbed my coat and turned about on the doorstep. "Take Monday off. I'll see you on Tuesday."

Out of her apartment, I felt the urge to bury my anxiety in running. But instead, I leaned on an oak and inhaled a breath. A single moment like this one, and I would be bound to reconsider all my plans. I'd eliminate that option with my ability to deceit, but not without a guilty mind. Her expression shifted my unvoiced doubts – she'd definitely thought of me, but I hoped it were nothing more than a foolish infatuation. My actions would hurt her and I wanted the extent to be as little as possible. She would probably interpret the kiss as my way to use her.

Which I did.

The guilt was solely on me.

Deep in thought, I drove Emmett's car to cleaning and spent an hour waiting for the place to open. Forty five minutes later in Oak Park, I walked past my broken mailbox, reading '27…5A Highl… Street.' I stepped into the apartment, my footsteps and breaths echoing because of the emptiness. Despite a clearly hot summer day ahead, I lighted a fire in the fireplace. In every five years around the time of summer solstice, I marked myself the only way I could. The only way my body scarred.

Burn.

Placing the iron rodin the fire, I slowly unbuttoned my shirt and changed into comfortable clothing. I cooked a meal – a half-baked bacon – before checking if the iron was hot enough.

It was.

I inhaled, clutched the hot iron, sat on the round table and closed my eyes. I briefly wondered if it was wise to harm myself before swimming practice, but then I remembered I'd managed to avoid bigger damage last year. If I followed through properly, I could finish the symbol on my chest.

I opened my eyes, slowly bringing the iron closer to my chest. It emitted warmth. Inhaling, I reminded myself the power of mind and pressed it tightly against my skin. I growled, breathing rapidly. To an extent, I had learned to control my nervous system, but as far as emotions and fire were concerned, the pain could easily grow unbearable.

My calmness consisted of more self-deceit than I cared to admit, just like the pain I caused myself with heat – I could not feel mechanical pain anymore – was more a lesson to learn than a punishment to bear.

I changed the position of the iron, my breaths still rapid and too deliberate. I willed myself not to faint and succeeded for a few minutes, but realized too late that I'd passed the fairly thin line between a second and a third degree burn. The only kind of pain my body could feel could easily knock me out, and the sight of muscle tissue without any skin was enough to make me nauseous. I inhaled. I didn't need to fall in shock.

Knowing I would soon desperately need help, I threw on the first piece of clothing I found and faltered out of my apartment without bothering to lock the door.

Before I knew it, I had hastily parked Emmett's Jeep in front of his house and stumbled out of the car. I leaned on the doorframe as I knocked on the main door. A few strong footsteps were followed by angry 'motherfucker,' 'Saturday morning' and 'should be illegal' before the door flung open.

He halted to a stop, blinking wildly and scratching his forehead. "Edward?"

Without saying a word, I held the keys out to him before he confusedly clutched them. "I wasn't expecting you," he uttered, frowning. "You look like shit. What happened?"

"I _feel_ like shit," I murmured, barely holding myself together. I strengthened my hold on the doorframe as my legs threatened to give out.

"What happened?" Emmett repeated as he raised his hand to place it on my shoulder, but I grimaced and huffed before he could.

"Can I trust you?"

"Of course," he attempted a smile. "Come on in."

"Is your wife at home?"

"She's at her grandmother's to arrange some party."

I grimaced and slowly stepped in, trying to avoid stumbling. I failed, slumped on the first chair I noticed, and inhaled, feeling more dizzy than I would have liked. Emmett was probably leaning toward me, but at this point, I couldn't be certain of anything.

"Edward – what the hell happened to you? I've never seen you drunk before."

"I'm not," I clarified. "Listen, I came here because there is no way I'd go to the hospital. I need a little help. Just don't ask any questions."

His face clouded. "Edward, if this is anything illegal…"

I let out a laugh, but the pain it caused me quickly shut me up. "It isn't," I assured, grimacing again. "But I know you have a medical degree and you will be able to help me."

"Clinical epidemiology, but Edward – that was a long, long time ago… Will you tell me what the hell happened? I cannot promise to help you before I know what's going on."

I did not answer.

With difficulties, I slowly started to take off my shirt and let Emmett help me. Once it was off, I stared down. About seven inches in diameter, my skin had completely melted and twitching muscles were revealed. I took a shaky breath.

Emmett stumbled back, his face considerably paler. "What the…"


End file.
